“Won’t be seen,” growled the boatswain. “It’s black enough to puzzle a cat.”
“Very well, then—heard,” continued Fitz.
“Right, sir. What next?”
“There are no more orders. You will hold on while Mr Poole and I get aboard. We shall do the rest.”
“Hah!” sighed the boatswain; and like an echo came a similar sound from the carpenter.
Then pat, pat, pat came the kissing of the water against the bows of the gig, and the sides of the ravine seemed as weird and strange as ever, while the darkness if anything grew more profound.
At this point, with the boat gliding swiftly down stream, Poole leaned sideways to run his hand down Fitz’s sleeve, feel for his hand, and give it a warm pressure, which was returned.
Then they went on round bend after bend, the current keeping them pretty well in the centre, till at last the final curve was reached, the starry band overhead seemed to have suddenly grown wider and the air less oppressive, both hints that they were getting out to sea, and that the time for the performance of the daring enterprise was close at hand.
Most fortunately the sea did not “brime,” as the West-countrymen say, when the very meshes of their nets turn into threads of gold through the presence of the myriad phosphorescent creatures that swarm so thickly at times that the surface of the sea looks as if it could be skimmed to clear it of so much lambent liquid gold.
This was what was wanted, for with a phosphorescent sea, every dip of the oar, every wavelet which broke against the boat, would have served as signal to warn the watch on board the gunboat that enemies were near.